


Can't Fight This Feeling

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Good Friend, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Nipple Piercings, No Eurus Holmes, Pining, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 18:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: When Sherlock and John are summoned to Mycroft's office because of a boring case, Sherlock discovers something new about his brother that turns his world upside down. Jealousy takes over.





	Can't Fight This Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from this fantastic song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zpOULjyy-n8 It got through my head all the time and somehow it led to this silly little story.

## 1

Mycroft Holmes stalked through his PA’s office, the long fingers of his right hand clamped around his briefcase. “I'll have tea, thank you,” he informed Anthea through gritted teeth before he stormed into his own office and only just refrained from slamming the door. The sigh he thought he had heard from behind hadn't probably been uttered.

He threw himself in his chair, his heart rate slowing down only very slowly.

This damn Prime Minister and his stupid ideas! Lady 'So-not-subtle'-Smallwood and her 89th suggestion to meet for a drink. Sir Edwin and his unfounded concerns about the developments with the Belgians.

He so had enough. He actually didn’t want tea. He wanted a _drink_. Something brown and shiny that would burn so nicely in his throat. A glance at his golden watch told him he would have to wait for that for at least another two hours. He did take a drink in the Diogenes after five o'clock. But he didn’t drink in the Cabinet Office. Rules were rules. And he didn’t have time to go over to the Diogenes as the next bloody meeting was waiting for him here in this monument of glass and coldness…

For a full minute, he allowed himself to not do anything but sit at his desk, staring at his entwined fingers.

“Yes,” he said when he heard the expected knock at the door.

“Your tea, sir.”

“Thank you, Anthea.”

She smiled a little sourly and gave him a nod before she retreated. Women were always so oversensitive… He would buy her chocolates. It always soothed her…

He knew he had to work on a report. And he would. But first…

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a photograph. The man it showed hadn't known a camera was directed at him. He looked a tad pissed off though. At the world in general or someone special, who knew. But even with his frown he was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.

Mycroft's throat got dry when he looked at the picture for the 700th time (he estimated). He could have had more of them but he allowed himself only this one. Rules etc. etc.

Mycroft Holmes was in love. For the first time in the thirty-nine years of his life. It had hit him like a blow with a shovel and so it had indeed felt. From one second to the other. Totally unexpected and totally unwanted. He was more out of his depth than he had ever been. Love. What a silly thing. What an impossible thought. What a foreign concept. One moment, one unplanned touch and _bang_ , his life wasn't the same anymore. He who had thought himself to be superior to all people, even his brilliant brother, had fallen for full lips and beautiful eyes and lean, strong muscles. He gasped at even the thought of being allowed to really touch, really feel… This wasn't some goldfish after all. This was **the** man for Mycroft Holmes.

And he was shit-scared of letting him know.

Could he ever? Wouldn't he just laugh? Be disgusted?

Mycroft visualised his mirror image. And sighed. He had always thought he was cleverer than actually everybody out there but certainly he had never thought he was handsome. The receding hair, leaving more of his forehead uncovered every year. The rather round face with the silly dimply in the chin. The oversized nose. The lips not full at all. Why had his brother gotten all the handsome genes and cheekbones and pouty lips and he looked like everybody's favourite middle-aged small-town pastor? It wasn't fair… His eyes were quite nice though. He was tall, taller than Sherlock, ha, and, in opposite of what Sherlock thought, he wasn't fat anymore. His hands were also rather pretty. Pretty! He grimaced about himself. Men weren't pretty, certainly not him. But then he stared at the picture again. This was beauty. Perfection. Even prettiness… Oh what he wouldn’t give to be able to cherish it properly…

He had fought these ghastly feelings of course. Had fought them with all he'd had. Unfortunately, he seemed to not have that much in this regard. His resistance had been undermined by unspeakable wet dreams and nightly fantasies that would have made a porn model blush. Actually he often had them during the day as well… It was a disgrace! His heart beat faster when he just thought of him, let alone saw him for real. This wasn't just desire. He was head over heels in love. And he had the strong feeling this wouldn’t disappear anymore. He wanted him so badly. His sexual experiences were hardly worth mentioning. But now he _craved_ for sex. For whispering sweet nothings and, God help him, get cuddled. He swallowed when he saw himself and his sweetheart walking hand in hand on a beach. They would laugh together and kiss and make love in the sand. His cock filled out at the thought embarrassingly.

But how should he win his heart? It was a lost case. Never in this life would someone like him choose someone like Mycroft. Or _Mycroft_ to be precise. He rubbed his eyes. They were not wet. Not a bit.

The vibrating of his phone startled him. He looked at the display and sighed. Mummy of all people… No way could he reject a call from her. But before he accepted it, he carefully stored the photograph again. After reverently stroking over it… And sighing once more.

“Hello, Mummy…”

*****

“Sorry, sir, please turn off your phone.”

“But this is a dental office, not a hospital!” He had planned to do some work. Mycroft Holmes didn’t have a habit of wasting any time during a work day. Or otherwise. Except for daydreaming about the most wonderful man in the world of course…

The receptionist gave him a stern glare. “These are our rules, Mister Holmes. No annoying phone calls, no hectic texting! Some of our patients are very nervous and that only increases it. You will find that we have some excellent magazines you can read while you're waiting for your appointment.”

Mycroft was fuming. Why had he come here for his yearly check-up?! Yes, because Sir Edwin had recommended this dentist and Mycroft's old one had just retired. He would tell his colleague a few things when he saw him later…

With a punishing eye-rolling which was completely ignored by the woman – in her forties, mother of at least three and wife to a weak husband Mycroft would have felt sorry for if he had cared, five pounds too much on her hips, cheap hair colour, great cook, doing all the handyman work at home herself – he stalked into the waiting room and let himself fall onto one of those horrible plastic chairs. Yes, there were magazines on a small, unstable round table. _Women's_ magazines! He wouldn't read about stupid celebrities! He didn’t want any recipes for goulash!

But he also couldn’t just sit here in this otherwise almost empty room and stare at the wall! The two old men sitting in the corner were hardly worth deducing them… So he grabbed one of the godforsaken pamphlets and flicked through it. The expected nonsense. Dresses, makeup. Advices how to save money. Musing about the possibility of a so-called star he had never heard about being pregnant again or not. All this boring goldfish stuff. _Female_ goldfish stuff above all! But then something caught his eye. Two pages of people asking for help. Pathetic! But at least entertaining perhaps… _'I think my daughter lies to me. I'm desperate!' 'I'm dreaming every night about a man in red shoes, what does that mean?' 'My husband cheats on me, what should I do?' 'There is a man I really like but he can't stand me. What can I do?'_ And more of this. Goldfish problems, answered by a goldfish psychologist.

But against his will, he was interested. Just a bit.

When it was his turn to see the doctor, he was deep in his thoughts.

## 2 – Three Weeks Later

“Take it!”

Sherlock looked up with a petulant glare. “No. I'm too busy.”

He heard John sigh and glared at him, too. He expected loyalty from his best and only friend! He wouldn’t side with Mycroft now, would he?!

“This agent must be observed tonight. The possibility that he is a double agent is too high. We can't risk that,” Mycroft went on nagging, gesturing with the sodding folder in his right hand.

“Get some other agent to observe him then! Or the bloody cops!”

“Give it to me, Mycroft,” John said after sighing a little louder.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” the British Government said in a disgustingly triumphant tone and turned to this traitor of a flatmate.

Sherlock looked at him properly for the first time while he was explaining this boring 'case' to John. Something was different about his pain in the arse of an older brother. It was his hair! It was shorter! And had he seriously used – styling gel?!

And his suit – it was so tight! Not because he had gotten fat again, in fact he looked slimmer than ever. It was tailored like this. Sherlock caught himself looking at his brother's backside for a second and blushed. But Mycroft was actually _begging_ for people to look at his arse, wearing these obscenely tight trousers and this short jacket that didn’t cover it!

Midlife crisis, ha! That's what it was! He would turn forty later this year! What would come next – a hair transplant? Getting his pale English skin tanned in a solarium?

“I count on you, Sherlock, Doctor Watson. No texting! You will come to Whitehall tomorrow morning and tell me about it!”

Sherlock snorted but John said, “Okay, Mycroft. We'll see what we can do.”

“Much obliged. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Ha, how? By running after your stupid rogue agent?”

Mycroft didn’t grace him with an answer but took his umbrella – on a bright, hot summer day! – and left, and Sherlock could have sworn he had wiggled his hips.

Something was happening here. Mycroft almost looked… happy! Or... No! Not Mycroft! He hadn't shown any signs of recent sexual activity. He felt his cheeks redden at this impossible thought.

“Earth to Sherlock! We will have to prepare a few things for tonight then!”

Sherlock was fuming. “You agreed to do it! You can as well do it alone!”

John grinned and shook his head. “We both know that eventually you'll give in anyway. You always help him in the end.”

Sherlock stomped with his foot. “I will not and I do not!”

John just crossed his arms and looked unbearably smug.

Of course he was right. And half an hour later, they were ready to play spy for his damn brother and the bloody Queen.

*****

“I'll be with you in a second,” Mycroft said, holding up his forefinger, going on reading some stupid papers.

Sherlock balled his hands into fists. “You summoned us here, brother! We have other things to do than…

“Sherlock. Calm down.”

He turned to John who now made a soothing noise as if to shush a barking dog. How dare he!

He was about to tell him what he could do with his tongue instead when Mycroft cleared his throat. “Apologies. Please, take a seat!” And then he took off his jacket and draped it neatly over his chair before he turned to them with a smile.

His crisp white shirt was the tightest shirt Sherlock had ever seen. And he had forgone wearing a tie! Sherlock could even see some stray black chest hairs trying to crawl out of his collar. And. What. The. Fuck. Was. This?!

He sat down when John pulled at his arm. The doctor cleared his throat. “Well, Mycroft. We observed this man as you told us and…”

Sherlock didn’t listen to his explanations. He was busy staring at Mycroft's chest. Not at the hair, as out of place as it looked in this sterile environment. He had discovered something else. Something small and golden was clearly visible under the thin, almost sheer fabric of the certainly very expensive shirt.

No. It couldn’t be!

“Sherlock, would you agree to this assumption?” Mycroft asked him with a friendly smile, devoid of any mockery.

Sherlock had not heard a word but he nodded, reminding himself to shut his mouth.

“Fine. I'm glad to hear that. How can I reward you for your time?”

“Cash is always nice,” John said dryly.

“Cash it will be then. But I would love to invite you for dinner as well. Tonight?”

“Sorry, I won't be available. But Sherlock will be free.”

“What?” Sherlock slowly turned his face to John.

“Excellent. Chez Sébastian, eight pm?”

“He'll be there,” John assured him and took Sherlock's arm again. “We'll leave you to your duties now, Mycroft. Come.”

Sherlock let himself be guided out of Mycroft's office. His head was spinning.

“What is wrong with you?” John asked when they stepped out of the building into the bright summer morning.

“Didn’t you see it?”

“See what?”

“My brother. His short hair with styling gel! No waistcoat! Took off his jacket!”

“Well, um. It's warm in there, you know, because it's 24C already. Summer. Even in London.”

“And his shirt. So tight.”

“Well, yes. His clothes look a bit younger these days. Suits him, don't you think?”

“Under his shirt…”

“The hair?” John chuckled. “Who would have thought the British Government is such a bear, huh?”

“Not only the hair, John.” But he couldn’t speak it out. Instead he walked off without another word, ignoring John's questions.

He just couldn’t say it loudly. Even thinking it made him feel dizzy and weird and strange and offended and…

His brother not only wore his hair shorter and his suits and shirts tighter. His stuffy, uptight brother had a nipple piercing.

## 3

“Ah, Monsieur Sherlock! We haven't seen you for too long!” The false smile of the receptionist, all oily hair and voice and impeccable suit, made Sherlock grimace.

He hadn't been in this posh French restaurant since the year before when his parents had come to London. Of course it had been Mycroft's idea to go here. Everybody was so sickeningly polite and smiling all the time. It was ghastly.

He nodded at the short, thin man with the ugly moustache and looked around.

“Oh, your brother has arrived already. I will guide you to him.”

“Don't make such a fuss. I'll find him.”

“As you wish, Monsieur Sherlock. You look very good today!”

Sherlock grumbled something and hastened into the back of the room where his brother was certainly hiding. And yes, he was sitting in a corner, looking at his phone display. He put it away when Sherlock approached him.

“Ah, Sherlock. I'm glad you made it.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch while dropping onto a chair opposite of Mycroft. Only fifteen minutes too late. Why had he come here at all? Probably because he had not been able to have a straight thought the entire day after…

He couldn’t see it now – Mycroft was wearing his (short, tight) jacket. But Sherlock knew it was there. Hidden under the layers of clothes. Waiting to be revealed, waiting to be…

“Do they have anything to eat apart from this nasty French haute cuisine stuff? I won’t eat frogs and all this nasty grub!” He had sounded a tad aggressive even to his own ears, but Mycroft's mouth only slightly twitched in disapproval.

“I'm sure we'll find something nice for you.”

Sherlock glared at him for sounding so condescending but Mycroft smiled brightly at him. He shrugged. “Choose something for me then which won't make me puke all over the table…”

“Very well.” Mycroft made a gesture and the waiter was there at once.

Sherlock didn’t even listen to what Mycroft ordered – in French of course. He was feeling incredibly… strange and nervous and…whatever… It was like biting on tinfoil. Nasty, unnameable emotions, making his skin tingle and his teeth vibrate. Sherlock couldn’t do emotions. He'd always had some for Mycroft – annoyance, exasperation, resentment. And, hidden deep under all the nasty ones, trust and a strange, unwelcome sort of care. Brotherly things. Family things. Unavoidable. Bothersome but unavoidable. And now something new had added to this conglomerate of nasty sentiments. Something Sherlock didn’t even want to think about.

“What did you do with the agent?” he blurted.

Mycroft looked around and made a shushing gesture with his hand. “Not here!” he hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but in fact he was pleased. Much better. Annoyance was fine. “Spit it out. Nobody listens to our boring conversation.”

Mycroft winced and sighed. His face had fallen and Sherlock felt a little guilty. Damn feelings! Since when meant being around Mycroft being surrounded by stupid feelings!

“He was dealt with,” Mycroft answered vaguely. He took his phone again and typed something.

Sherlock shrugged and pulled out his own one. While they were waiting for their meals, both Holmes brothers concentrated on their phones. Or at least Sherlock pretended to do it. He caught himself glancing stupidly at his brother's clothed chest a few times.

He had thought about it all day. Why the hell had his brother done that? And when had he gotten it? Sherlock hadn't seen him without a jacket for… dozens of years probably. Had he been running around with a fucking nipple piercing for twenty years maybe? But Sherlock doubted it. The new haircut, the dropping of his baggy suits – it must have happened only recently.

Because Mycroft had… met someone? Who? And did he… Sherlock shuddered.

“You're okay?” Mycroft asked him with raised eyebrows.

“Sure,” Sherlock mumbled. And then he was saved by the waiter bringing their food, and Sherlock shovelled the fish and the vegetables into his mouth as if it was his first meal for days. Which is nearly was…

He caught Mycroft looking at him with an amused smile. “What?” he said with his mouth full and Mycroft shook his head with a sigh but he refrained from saying something about table manners but attacked his own, matching meal, albeit in a very less frantic manner.

Sherlock regretted having gulped down his – surprisingly tasty – food that quickly, being left to watch his brother eating afterwards.

When Mycroft was finished, he used his pink napkin gingerly. “Would you like dessert?” he asked Sherlock.

He shook his head. “Thanks, no,” he said then, not knowing why.

Mycroft smiled. “Mummy called me,” he said then.

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, that's why we're here! What should you pass on?”

“Has Mummy ever needed my assistance if she wanted to tell you something?”

“Then why else?!”

“Well…” Mycroft blushed a little and Sherlock froze.

His brother wouldn’t tell him now that he was seeing someone, would he? Was he… about to get married in the end? Or civilly partnered as they called it? He was gay, Sherlock was sure. Very sure. But if there were anyone he shared his life with now, wouldn’t he be here now, too? Hectically he turned around, expecting to see some suit-wearing professional with a side parting approaching them, ready to be introduced to his future brother-in-law. But all he saw were a few other guests and two waiters who weren’t paying any attention to them.

“Do two brothers need a reason to have dinner together?”

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft slowly. “Sorry what?!”

Mycroft blushed again and shrugged. “Well, perhaps it's not that typical for us…”

Sherlock laughed.

Mycroft's hand cramped around his already rather crumpled napkin. “It was a way to say thank you,” he mumbled.

“You paid me for it!”

“… and for, you know… having a fresh start maybe. For our brotherly relationship.”

Sherlock snorted again and then Mycroft's phone vibrated with a call.

“Oh, I'm sorry! I'll be quick.”

“Take your time…”

Mycroft turned away from him and whispered into his phone. But it was rather quiet in the restaurant apart from the usual annoying clattering of cutlery on plates, and he could clearly hear a few words, spoken in a tone he had never heard from his brother - _'I told you I can't…' - 'Yes, me too. Very much…' - 'I'll do that… Bye…'_

He put the phone onto the table with an apologetic smile. His cheeks were flushed. “Apologies. So, you're sure about the dessert?”

Sherlock just sat there, his stomach turning into a knot. His last doubts had just vanished. Mycroft was involved with someone. He was in love with someone.

“Sherlock? I asked if you are sure you don't want some dessert? Mousse au chocolat perhaps?”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock brought out, and then he shot up and stormed out of the room. He was about to search for the toilets but instead he left the restaurant and almost ran all the way to Baker Street, desperately trying to not throw up onto the pavement, not knowing why his stomach was flipping around in the worst way he had ever experienced.

*****

Mycroft saw him leaving. He didn’t get up to follow him. He didn’t pick up his phone but kept watching the door with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Monsieur, would you like something? Is everything to your liking?” the waiter asked him in French.

Mycroft smiled. “I would say so, yes. I would like some dessert if you have any?”

“Monsieur! Everything you like!”

“I'll have some mousse au chocolat, please. Oh, and a scotch, my usual brand. No ice.” He only had one glass of wine before and Sherlock had drunk water.

“Very well!”

Mycroft liked to think so too. He deserved this dessert and this drink now. And he needed it.

## 4

“You're going out?”

Sherlock slipped into his coat. “Well deduced, John.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No.”

“Well, thanks!”

Sherlock sighed. “It's nothing that would interest you. And I won't be long.”

“And you're not telling me what you're up to on this beautiful morning.”

Sherlock didn’t think so, no. He was rather sure John wouldn’t approve of his plans. “I need you to stay here in case a client comes by.”

“And I'll do what then – solve the case on my own?”

“You should be able to after working with me for so long!”

John sighed. “Just go and do what you have to do. If someone comes by, I'll tell them to come back later.”

“Fine. See you then.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock gave him a rather false smile, mimicking the waiters of the evening before. The memory let the corners of his mouth go down at once.

John just shook his head and returned to the living room, and Sherlock left 221B, in his pocket the key to Mycroft's house.

*****

Sherlock paused after typing in the alarm code. The house was silent. Well, of course it was. It was ten am on a work day and Mycroft was in the Cabinet Office or the Diogenes or wherever the British Government's services were asked for. He wouldn’t come home for many hours.

He looked around but he couldn’t see any cameras. That didn’t necessarily mean they were not there. He didn’t want to check it out though. Mycroft wouldn’t observe his empty house without any reason. He had better things to do…

Nonetheless he crossed the hallway on silent feet, glancing at the nasty paintings on the high walls. He'd always wondered why Mycroft was living here. It was… posh, yes, and huge. Too much room for a single man. He only saw it at night or the weekends though. Probably it was a suitable refuge for a man dedicating his life to the crown.

Sherlock looked into the living room. Nothing had changed since his last visit, as unauthorized as this one. He had just come to steal a folder from Mycroft's home office. It hadn't been there much to his disappointment. He wasn’t there for something like this now.

In fact he didn’t really know _why exactly he was here._

It was none of his business. Mycroft could shag around with everybody he liked to. He was an adult man. Sherlock's brother.

But he'd had to come here. Find out… who the fuck was sharing the Iceman's bed! Somewhere in this house there would be clues.

It was his right to know it. What if Mycroft had a really bad taste and this man would compromise him? Mummy would be devastated! The Queen would be appalled! It was Sherlock's responsibility to save his brother from himself, from his… awful desires and the… addiction to some sneaky, untrustworthy wannabee!

He saw two male bodies, entwined and sweaty and frantic, in his mind's eye and shook off the horrible picture at once. Not that he had any problem with Mycroft being gay. He was gay himself even though he had never lived it out. Sex was probably nothing to be offended by even though he had never felt the urge. With whom?

And Mycroft with some sodding goldfish… It was simply ghastly… He would find out who this man was and then confront Mycroft with his failure!

He didn’t pay attention to the other rooms downstairs. Instead he climbed the stairs and burst into Mycroft's office. It was as neat and impeccable as the living room. Nothing was lying on the desk. The computer was off. Sherlock knew he could get into it and he would do it if necessary but first…

He steeled himself and then entered Mycroft's bedroom. The bed _was_ new. And huge. A real, serious playground…

When he was able to turn his look away from it, he saw it. A picture on the nightstand, in an expensive silver frame. A young man with black hair, smiling brightly into the camera. Or perhaps at the man who had taken the photograph. He was stunning.

Sherlock stared at it, his head spinning with thoughts, his heart aching with unidentifiable feelings. He was shaking. Shuddering. He saw this man opening his mouth, his tongue darting out, licking over Mycroft's pierced nipple.

And then he turned and ran out of the room, down the stairs and out of the house.

*****

Mycroft leaned back in his chair after turning off the video feed. His heart was beating as fast as Sherlock had raced down the stairs, thank God without stumbling. He was feeling guilty and bad and delighted and scared to death.

He winced when someone knocked at his door. “Yes?”

Sir Edwin came in with a few folders. “Can we talk now? After you shut me up after one sentence yesterday?”

“Of course. But I did tell you I would be in company in the evening.”

The bald man grimaced. “You know this is important. The Belgians…”

Mycroft internally sighed but he listened, and he soothed his colleague. He had been very useful last night after all…

## 5

Sherlock had no idea how often he had paced through the living room until John said, “Sherlock! Sit down already! You're driving me crazy! And Mrs Lehman is waiting for your solution!”

Of course he hadn't heard a word the woman had said. What did it matter?

And why did it matter to him what he had seen in the morning? It was ridiculous! He couldn’t feel like this just because his brother had found a boyfriend! There was no reason for him to be so shaken and upset and jealous and…

Sherlock stopped dead and swallowed.

The feeling with no name had gotten a name after all.

He was totally, utterly and hopelessly jealous.

He had gone to Mycroft's house, planning to find a proof that Mycroft had fallen for the wrong man so he could throw it into his face and make him stop seeing him as it would be a risk for the country and Mycroft wouldn’t want that, would he?

And then he hadn't even tried to find out who this man on the picture was because it bloody didn’t matter. _Every man_ who laid a hand on his brother was the wrong man because it wasn't _him_!

“Sherlock, you're really worrying me.”

He slowly turned around, seeing John standing behind him. The visitor's chair was empty.

“She's gone,” John said dryly.

What was he supposed to do now? How could this have happened? When had it happened?

“John,” he croaked.

“Yes, Sherlock? What's wrong? God, you're pale like a ghost! Sit down! I'll get some water for you.”

Sherlock let himself be manhandled into his chair and sat there with a dizzy head and a dry throat until John provided him with a glass of water, which he poured down in one go. Of course it didn’t make anything better.

“John,” he said again.

John sat down in his own chair after dragging it close to Sherlock's. “Yes? What is it?”

“What do you think… How should a man be that I could…”

John stared at him, confused. “Well… could what?”

“Love,” Sherlock whispered.

“Oh. Oh! Um… I… Well, he'd have to be smart, right. Very smart. What would you do with some silly guy who never knows what you're talking about?”

“A goldfish.”

“A what? Yeah, perhaps. That. Must have some special brain as well to live up to you. He should be rather… I don't know, tall? So you wouldn’t have to bend down to… And… handsome, I guess. You are. Just stating facts, you know. Stunning, you. Cheekbones and eyes and curls and… bottom.”

“You think my… bottom is nice?”

“Not for reasons! Just… God, you're running around naked here often enough! I can acknowledge male beauty, you know! And it's not as if I couldn’t compare you to other men! I was a soldier, and I'm a doctor! I saw hundreds of men naked.”

“And I'm handsome with a nice arse, compared to them.”

“Well, yes! Cause you are. Very handsome. In your unique way. But why is that important now? I thought you… don't do such things.”

“I didn’t. Never. But…” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t just say, _'now I realised I'm in love with my brother, you know, and I wanted to hear that he's the right man for me and that I'm hot enough to cope with this fucking model of a boyfriend.'_

But Mycroft was - the right man for him. Images of his brother whirled through his mind. The chubby boy, turned into a tall, slim, handsome man many years ago. The only man who was his superior in terms of brilliance. Who could handle Sherlock. Knew how to manipulate him into doing what he wanted. But was this really true? John had stated it – in the end he always helped his brother. He sulked and refused and protested and then he did exactly what Mycroft wanted. He didn’t have to but he did. Because he'd always loved his brother. Never put it in words, not even to himself. He had thought it was the usual brotherly bond, Holmesish way.

But it wasn't just that. He had noticed Mycroft's bottom! He could see his beautiful eyes in his mind's eye if he closed his eyes. He only now realised that a few weeks ago he had accidentally bumped into Mycroft when he had entered his office. And it had made him feel strange…

He desired him. He needed him.

And Mycroft was in love with someone else.

No.

Sherlock wouldn’t have it.

He shot up from his chair, almost making John crash to the ground.

“Easy, Sherlock!”

“Sorry!”

“You didn’t hear a single word I said in the last three minutes, did you?”

Sherlock hadn't even noticed he had said anything.

John shook his head but he was grinning. Then he grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. “Listen. Whoever it is, go to him. Tell him he's your boyfriend now.”

“I can't…” He felt shaky in his knees all at once. It was ridiculous. Mycroft was his brother! He was the British government! Even if he hadn't been in love with another man, he would never want Sherlock!

“Oh, you can. You can convince anybody.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes! Who could ever refuse you?! If I was gay, I would have been all over you years ago.”

“You're not really my type, John.”

“Oh, that hurt!”

“Oh, sorry!”

“Just kidding. Now go and let him know how lucky he is.”

“And what if he doesn’t want me…”

“Then he's an idiot and doesn't deserve you. And you'll come back and we'll find someone else for you if you're sure you want someone.”

“It's Mycroft.” He shut his mouth with an audible noise.

John stared at him. Mouthed Mycroft's name. Closed his mouth. Went on staring like a fish. And then he nodded. “Well, sure. Who else?”

“What?!”

“I basically just told you that he's the man for you. Subconsciously but yeah, really, who else?”

Sherlock gaped at him.

“I mean, yeah. It's rather unconventional. But I should have seen it coming lately. Anyway. Holmeses, right? Not normal people, you… Fits… Go to him and talk to him.”

Sherlock was hardly able to believe what he was hearing. But then he wondered if it would ever matter.

There was only one way to find out.

John surprised him with hugging him, and then he practically shoved Sherlock out of the flat.

Sherlock was sitting in a cab a minute later. And with every kilometre that brought him closer to his brother's address, he was feeling more determined.

He wouldn’t leave Mycroft's house without getting what he wanted - Mycroft.

## 6

Sherlock didn’t bother using the doorbell. He opened up with his key and stormed into the house. He had seen light in the living room but when he reached it, taking a deep breath to shout out what he had to say, it was empty.

He stormed out and ran up the stairs. And stopped dead when he saw light in the bedroom; the door was open. What if… Mycroft was in there with this fucking man? What if they were…

Well, then they would stop! He steeled himself and walked on, listening closely to any suspicious noises, his knees pathetically weak. But then he realised that all he could hear was the shower running in the bathroom that could only be entered through the bedroom.

Slowly he walked into said bedroom. Nobody was there. Mycroft's suit from the day was hanging at the large wardrobe. The bathroom door was closed.

With shivering legs, he crossed the room to sit down on the neatly made bed. But then the shower stopped. So did he. He listened to the unmistakable noises of someone – Mycroft obviously – brushing his teeth.

And then the door opened up. And Sherlock's jaw dropped.

Mycroft was wearing nothing but a large white towel around his waist. His black hair was ruffled and damp. His upper body, still glistening from wetness, was covered in hair, from right under his neck to his flat belly. Only around the large, pink nipples it was lighter so they were clearly visible. As visible as the ring through his left one. A surprisingly thick, golden ring through a surprisingly thick pearl.

Sherlock stared and stared at it and then he realised that his brother hadn't said a word. He looked up to his face and he could see that Mycroft was not in the least surprised about finding him here in his bedroom.

“Sherlock,” he said calmly now. “How nice of you to drop by.”

“He can't have you!” Sherlock blurted.

“Sorry what?”

“HE CAN'T HAVE YOU!”

“Oh, I did hear you, no reason to shout. I just don't know what you're talking about.” He sounded calm but there was something in his voice that didn’t quite fit.

But Sherlock was too wired up to pay attention to that. “You don't know?! Are you kidding me?! I'm talking about HIM!”

He turned and stalked to the bed, taking the frame on the nightstand and almost rammed it into Mycroft's face. “This! I won't allow it!”

“You don't like the picture?”

Sherlock shook his head in outrage and confusion. “What the fuck is wrong with you! I…” And then he looked at the frame for the first time. And his eyes opened wide.

This wasn't the picture he had discovered last time when he had ~~broken into~~ come into Mycroft's house. It had been replaced with a picture… of Sherlock. He wasn't smiling in the camera or the one who was holding it. He looked a tad pissed off and he had obviously not known he was being photographed.

He looked back to Mycroft. His brother looked very nervous all at once, his cool demeanour vanished in these few seconds.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “So… Whoever you are talking about can't have me because…? Because he's not…”

“…me. He's not me,” Sherlock said simply.

“Is that so? Really?” Mycroft's voice was barely a whisper. Despite Sherlock's open display of jealousy, he still seemed to doubt it.

All the reasons for that raced through Sherlock's head. It was forbidden. Dangerous. Would fuck up both of their lives if someone who didn’t react like John found out about it. He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. All the problems. We can deal with them. Stupid rules are for stupid people, not for us. So now call this… guy and tell him he won't see you again!”

“Oh, Sherlock…” Mycroft sounded relieved, disbelieving and touched at the same time. “You didn’t understand?”

“Understand what?” And then he got it. “There hasn't been another man.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Of course not. It was about you from the start. The moment we bumped together when… I was… I felt…”

Sherlock nodded, recalling this incident all too well. And then he narrowed his eyes. “This picture? You know I saw it! You know I was here… Who is it?”

Mycroft smiled. “I have no idea. I got this picture from the internet. And I hoped you would come here and… sniff around… And I watched you. There are cameras in this house. Special MI5 cameras.”

“Of course. But this!” Sherlock pointed at the nipple piercing.

“For you. Wanted to… impress you. Not look like the boring brother you've known all your life.”

Sherlock was speechless. Mycroft had gotten a piercing and then worn a shirt that showed it – just for him? All the training he had obviously done and that showed now that he nearly hid anything from him. The tight suits, the shorter hair… All for him… And of course he had awaited him now, too. This shower – and this appearance with nothing but a towel on - had not been a coincidence. He had tried to look more interesting and fresher because he thought Sherlock wouldn’t find him attractive otherwise.

“It worked,” he slowly said. “Not boring. You're… hot… But… it's not… just about your looks, you know that, right? It's about… you…”

Mycroft looked as if he was close to crying.

“I never considered it,” Sherlock continued. “Never considered anything with anyone. But when I saw this piercing… I thought… you have someone and I… couldn’t endure it. You're too smart for the goldfish! You're the only one who matches my intellect. You can't be with anyone else!”

“And now… you do consider doing it? Because I adore and admire your intellect. Your… unique personality…”

“Even though I've always been a brat towards you?”

Mycroft smiled and seemed to relax a bit. “I always knew deep inside, well, _very_ deep inside, you like me. Your petulance is part of your charm.” He winked and Sherlock grinned. “And you're so beautiful. The most beautiful man of all…”

They were still standing in the middle of the bedroom but Sherlock knew they had to go through this conversation now.

“I know this is… unusual to say the least.”

“Forbidden by law,” Sherlock added and Mycroft winced.

“So I know. But… I think we'll be able to hide it.”

“John knows I'm here and why I'm here,” Sherlock confessed.

Mycroft winced again but then he nodded. “I should have known you cannot _not_ tell him about it. He admires the ground you're walking on… He won't use it against you.”

“Us. John always liked you. He was always the one who wanted to take care of your cases. He said… Holmeses. As if it explained everything.”

“It kind of does, right?”

Sherlock grinned and nodded. “Don't worry, Mycroft. We'll be safe. This…,” he gestured around in the generous bedroom, “will be the only place where it happens.”

“Or the couch in the living room. Or the shower. Or the tub…”

“Mycroft!”

His brother blushed a little but he didn’t look sorry at all. It was great.

“Okay, let's say every place in this house. Outside of it, we'll be the bickering Holmes brothers.”

“Sounds like a very good idea.”

Had his brother always had such silky, seductive voice? Had he been deaf and blind all his life? Had his sexuality been sleeping so deeply because he hadn't been ready for this before? Or had his disinterest and inability to bond with anyone else in a romantic way resulted from a deeply hidden desire for his own brother?

Mycroft came closer now, very slowly, and Sherlock's heart started to pound. He raised his hands and put them onto the cool skin of Mycroft's shoulders, still a little clammy from the shower. He shuddered when Mycroft embraced his waist and pulled him close.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“I know… it's crazy. I love it…”

Mycroft smiled and then he bent forward and brushed the lightest of kisses onto his lips. It made Sherlock's knees do funny things. And his heart. And his cock…

He wanted more. Much more… His mouth crashed against Mycroft's, and he could feel him smile, and then his tongue parted Sherlock's plush lips and Sherlock moaned when his own tongue hit Mycroft's. This was like… A million possible comparisons shot through his brain but none of them seemed right. It was like nothing else he had ever experienced or read about.

His arms firmly around his brother's neck, he fell into this kiss, memorising everything to be stored in his Mind Palace forever, and he knew his brother was doing the same.

Eventually he let his right arm fall and pulled back a bit while still kissing his brother, and his hand slid over Mycroft's chest until it found this incredible _thing_. He poked at it and Mycroft moaned.

“Did it hurt?” Sherlock asked breathily.

“Oh God yes…”

Sherlock giggled. “You're mental, you know that. Piercing your nipple? You?!”

“Quite brave, huh?” Mycroft sounded rather proud.

“I'd say so! Can I… Can I kiss it?”

“Oh yes! That's what it's there for! Come, let's finally get more comfortable.”

Sherlock immediately dragged him to the bed, and he heard Mycroft chuckle happily.

*****

Mycroft was lying on his back and he felt like melting into the sheets. His entire body, all his skin was tingling. He was watching Sherlock licking his piercing and the swollen nipple it was attached to. And then Sherlock's fantastic lips took the ring and ever so slightly pulled at it and he almost _climaxed_.

He had left the towel at the end of the bed when he had lain down, and Sherlock had hastily removed his own clothes. The beauty of his body had left Mycroft speechless. It was every bit as perfect as his face. All creamy skin and hipbones and muscles and plush arse cheeks, and the thought of touching it and kneading the wonderful globes made him shiver in anticipation. But for now it was Sherlock's turn to explore him, his right hand firmly wrapped around but not stroking Mycroft's large cock.

He had not expected this to happen so quickly but of course he had hoped for it – thus the very light clothing when he had come out of the bathroom. He had known Sherlock was on the way. Like a spider in its web, he had been awaiting him. And he didn’t plan to ever let him go again.

Well, of course Sherlock would go home to Baker Street afterwards. He couldn’t just move in with him, as much as Mycroft would have loved that. But that John Watson accepted these developments would make it much easier to meet. If Sherlock hadn't blurted his feelings out to his flatmate before anything had happened, Mycroft would have suggested breaking it to him gently soon. They needed an accomplice and Sherlock wouldn’t be able to deceive John forever. And Mycroft wondered how the doctor would have reacted if he had to find out that he'd been lied to for perhaps weeks or months. It was better like this.

He reached out to touch Sherlock's hair and his brother looked into his eyes with an expression of so much arousal and care and trust that Mycroft's heart almost imploded. He loved Sherlock so much. He had always done and then this one moment when they had accidentally touched had opened up a door that had been closed firmly before. But Mycroft was well aware that these feelings must have been there for a long time already. He was rather glad he hadn't discovered them when Sherlock had been a lot younger. He wouldn’t have been able to cope with desiring his underage brother…

But now Sherlock was a man over thirty and he definitely did what he wanted to do.

Eventually Mycroft urged him to let go of his oversensitive, sweetly tortured nipple and silently asked him to lie on his back so Mycroft could explore him.

He kissed Sherlock first, long and deeply, and then he kissed his way down on his brother's smooth, silky body, and he worshipped his nipples equally thoroughly after a severe neck-nibbling-session, and apparently they were every bit as sensitive as his own ones, pierced or not.

When he finally closed his lips around Sherlock's proudly standing dick, tasting and sucking and giving pleasure, Sherlock moaned his arousal to the ceiling.

That was totally fine as Mycroft had no direct neighbours, and his house was frequently scanned for any bugs. He had never found any. The camera feed was as secure as it could get and he had of course turned it off for tonight anyway. He would make sure that Sherlock's phone was as safe as his own one so they could text and call each other without having to hide their feelings.

“Want to do it, too, Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed.

“Hm? Oh… Come then. Hover over me.” Mycroft lay down and after a moment of being confused, Sherlock realised what he was supposed to do. And a few seconds later his lips found Mycroft's cock, making his pulse go into the stratosphere, and Mycroft continued to suck him, too. This was simply heaven. He loved his brother's taste and despite the odd scratching of teeth over his glans, Sherlock did a marvellous job at sucking him, given the fact that he was doing this for the first time. The thought what practice would do to his abilities made Mycroft shudder in delight.

While he was devouring his brother's love tool with slurping noises that sounded gloriously disgusting and was touching and stroking his fantastic bottom, he mused about the incredible fact that this would have probably not happened if he hadn't read this stupid magazine that had turned out to be not quite that stupid after all.

 _'There is a man I really like but he can't stand me. What can I do?'_ had been the question. And the psychologist, Doctor Mona, had answered that perhaps this man wasn't that adverse to her in the end. She should try to get his attention and figure out if he really didn’t like her or perhaps just didn’t know how to deal with his – positive – feelings or wasn’t aware he was having them at all.

And Mycroft had wondered if Sherlock really despised him so much. Well, he had known Sherlock didn’t, no matter how much he seemed to do. But was Sherlock in fact feeling the same for him without even knowing it?

Get his attention… A nipple ring and a new and rather shocking shirt later he could say that he had definitely succeeded at that…

“Oh, oh, Mycroft!” whimpered Sherlock now, and then a few spurts of thick, salty fluid shot down Mycroft's throat.

He gurgled and gagged and swallowed while Sherlock was shuddering through his orgasm and then continued to suck him, and then he lost it himself and with a low growl, he orgasmed into his little brother's mouth as well, listening to Sherlock making the same noises, and his brother swallowed him down as well.

A moment later Sherlock was lying all over his chest and Mycroft was holding him tight. They were both breathing heavily.

“That was… amazing…” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yes, it really was. Do you think you could live with me doing the same… to your other side?”

Sherlock raised his head. “My… Oh! Fuck, yes!”

“In about half an hour?”

Sherlock giggled. “You're depraved!”

“Oh, I'd say I really am.”

They kissed once more, more tenderly now that their passion was satisfied for the moment.

“Mycroft…”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I want you to have another piercing.”

“Really? My other nipple?”

“Not quite…”

“Oh…” The thought was scary. And hot. “Yes.”

“Yes? Just so?”

“I'll do anything for you, little brother. Anything you ask me for.”

Sherlock smiled at him in a way that made his throat get tight. “I love you, Mycroft.”

“I love you, baby brother.”

And whatever problems and challenges they would have to face, this was what would make them deal with all of them, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, the very special brothers.

The End


End file.
